


An Enjolrasian Second

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Autumnal Fluff, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Grantaire pov, M/M, Mrs Enjolras: amateur at misdirection, Mrs. Enjolras is so much fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 06:18:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20903018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Enjolras has a deep-seated disdain for Halloween, and Grantaire makes it his mission to discover why.Warnings:none





	An Enjolrasian Second

**Author's Note:**

> Credit and love to [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait) (even if she kept insisting on projecting her own impure overtones on entirely innocent mother-son's boyfriend interactions).

“Mrs. Enjolras, you seem normal.”

They were only meant to be passing through to pick up a book Enjolras was convinced he had left there, but the ‘thirty seconds’ Grantaire had been assured have come and gone, and a quick glance around the foliage-filled foyer tells him that his boyfriend’s disdain for the Halloween season is not hereditary.

It occurs to Grantaire as soon as the words escape his mouth that this is not an effective way to convince Enjolras’s mom to let him at one of the trays of caramel apples slowly accumulating beside her over the countertop. Thankfully, though, she seems amused rather than offended at the observation. “Thank you, Grantaire.”

“What ever happened to our dear Junior to poison him against The Most Hallowed of Eens?”

“Oh,” she smiles mysteriously, “I’m not sure that’s for me to say.”

“So there _was_ something.” He sidles up beside her. “C’mon Mrs. E, I won’t tell. Promise.”

Humming cheerfully to herself, she gives the pot of caramel on the stove a quick stir.

“Was it scary movies? Did he have a bad horror movie experience? Was it _Texas Chainsaw Massacre?”_ He gasps. “Was it The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown Halloween Special?”

“No,” she laughs. “Junior has never cared much for the genre either way.”

Another issue, then. “Did the other posh kids in the neighborhood beat him up and steal his candy one fateful night? Because I’ve gotta be real, if some boat-shoed preteen showed up in my neighborhood dressed as the personification of liberty, I wouldn’t be able to make any promises either.”

Again, Mrs. Enjolras is graceful enough to ignore the slight against her family’s status, a twinkle in her eye as she responds. “They didn’t, though I’ll bear that in mind for the future.”

“You sure? Because you might not want to hear this, but your son is no snitch.”

“Quite positive,” she affirms. “His refusal to take part dates back well before he was ever of age to go out alone.”

An eyebrow raises in consideration before Grantaire leans in toward her. “Did _you_ beat him up and steal his candy?”

He hopes that Enjolras inherits his mom’s laugh lines as he gets older and that Grantaire will have the honor of being there to see them. “I freely admit to giving him his first lesson on taxation, though he always had a strong appreciation for the concept—much to Jean’s despair—and was very excited about donating his candy to UNICEF.”

“Oh Jean,” Grantaire grins, shaking his head. “So he has gone trick-or-treating before, then?”

Mrs. Enjolras licks her lips. “Oh dear, I think I’m going to need more wax paper. Be a dear and grab some for me? The cabinet overhead.”

It’s a valiant attempt at a distraction, but a poor one nevertheless. Mrs. Enjolras has been open about answering every topic except this one, and as Grantaire returns the aluminium he’s mistakenly grabbed in favor of the roll beside it he debates how to approach it.

“Do you have any pictures of our Junior dolled up in Halloween costumes?” Jeanne has a weakness for embarrassing photos of Enjolras, from childhood all the way through to the picture Grantaire had snapped that morning of Enjolras asleep beside what had been intended to be his first coffee of the day. His phone’s memory is absolutely chock-full from their photo-swaps, and he has no regrets.

“I know what you’re doing,” she warns goodnaturedly as she deposits another apple into the lined cake pan.

“Then you know I have no intentions of stopping.”

Another apple is dipped in the brown syrup. “I do.”

Selecting an apple of his own, Grantaire spears it with a skewer and slathers it in the rich caramel until it has a satisfactorily thick coating, depositing it beside its significantly prettier brethren. “So?”

Picking up the wooden spoon up again to resume her stirring, she sighs. “We had decided to let Junior pick his own Halloween costume when he was six, and he—well.” A blush colors her face. “This reflects more poorly on me than him, I’m afraid, but he wanted to be Queen Elizabeth, and I...tried to encourage a more appropriate choice.”

Shaking her head, she continues. “I can only assume that he thought I’d objected to him dressing as a monarch, rather than my true misguided intent, because the next time we took a trip to the library he checked out every book he could find on English royalty.” Shrugging uncomfortably, she taps the excess caramel from her wooden spoon, setting it on the spoonrest and returning to her one-man assembly line. “It was on that day that he discovered—oh, how did he put it?”

“The inherent evils of the monarchy and the disgusting nature of its systemic oppression?” a voice volunteers from behind them. 

The sleeves of Enjolras’s jumper are already pushed up to his elbows, and he reaches between them for a nearly-cooled apple.

“Careful,” his mother warns as Enjolras takes a messy bite. Grantaire is sorely tempted to kiss the caramel off of his boyfriend’s mouth, but he and Jeanne have a good thing going, and snogging her son in plain sight of her doesn’t seem like the best way to go about preserving that rapport.

“Queen Elizabeth, huh?” he asks instead, crossing his arms as he leans back against the counter. “I hadn’t realized that you were so taken with Good Queen Bess.”

“Oh, he wasn’t."

“Hmm?” He looks back to his boyfriend for guidance, only to see his boyfriend coloring. “But you—”

“Junior was quite enamored with her dogs. We never let him have any, and he already had designs for where he could borrow three—”

It clicks. “Elizabeth the second. Queen Liz. _Lizzie.”_

Can he get Enjolras’s countenance to match the deep red of his sweater? It seems a worthwhile endeavor.

“At six years old, you wanted to be the _current queen of England?”_

Enjolras clears his throat, appearing to do the best he can to make himself look dignified despite a face coated in caramel. He meets minimal success. “I was slightly more familiar with her state of pet-ownership than her family’s extensive collection of human rights violations. Not to mention her continued global influence and drain on taxpayer money when she should be advocating for—”

“Whoa, whoa, Enj,” Grantaire grins. “Twenty-three year-old you is not beholden to six year-old you’s temporary ignorance.”

A skeptical eyebrow raises. “So you won’t hold it over me?” 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.” This is a tale for years to come, a story that will not be soon-forgotten. Beside him, he hears Mrs. Enjolras attempt to stifle a giggle. “So you didn’t go trick-or-treating seventeen years ago, because six year-old you discovered the ‘evils of the monarchy’?”

Enjolras’s expression turns dark. “And the holiday hasn’t disproved me since.”

A wry smile continues to twist at Grantaire’s mouth as he reaches around behind himself for his own messy masterpiece. “I take it you couldn’t find the book?”

“Grantaire, it’s not—”

“I bet you absolutely anything Courf has it,” he insists. “Horoscope chick, I’m telling you.”

“Has what?” Enjolras’s mom asks, switching off the burner and rubbing at her hands with a dishtowel.

“Prouvaire has an equinox event coming up, and I want to study up on some of the history and traditional practices.”

“Oh, the book? Mrs. García-Lòpez asked to borrow it a couple weeks ago,” she tells him, crossing the kitchen to toss the cloth in a hamper. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“‘García-Lòpez,’” Grantaire repeats slowly, corners up his mouth rising in cautious triumph, “as in ‘mother of Courfeyrac-García’?”

Mrs. Enjolras’s glance bounces between them several times, evidently realizing that she has inadvertently weighed in on an ongoing debate, before she finally speaks. “I think I hear Jean calling for me, I’ll be just thirty seconds.” 

It quickly becomes clear that her ‘thirty seconds’ will be in the Enjolrasian unit of measurement, and Enjolras sighs. “Well, I suppose there’s always the internet.”

“That’s the spirit,” Grantaire cheers, wrapping an arm around his dejected boyfriend and bumping their heads together. “In any case, the visit was hardly a loss: we did get caramel apples, after all.”

A tired grin tugs at the edges of the blond’s mouth. “I suppose we did.”

“And I have a great story for our next get-together,” he continues, which makes Enjolras rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah,” his boyfriend assents. “C’mon, we’re going to be late to that lecture you insisted on if we dawdle much longer.”

Grantaire grabs his jacket from the chair he’d thrown it over earlier as they move to the front door, calling a quick goodbye up to where Mrs. Enjolras had excused herself ‘thirty seconds’ ago and tugging it on once they exit the house for his shitty beater.

“So, how many?”

“What?”

Without looking over, Grantaire shrugs. “Just wondering what the suitable number of dogs is going to be to keep you happy. My charm, good looks, talent, and wit are pretty powerful motivators, I know, but I’d like some insurance here.”

He’s already at the driver’s side door when he sees that Enjolras had frozen several steps back, expression somewhere between firm and fond. “You as yourself will always be enough for me,” he says once Grantaire finally meets his boyfriend’s eye. 

Warmth fills his chest as he unlocks the car and fumbles the key into the ignition, Enjolras sliding easily into the seat beside him.

“But also, four. Shelters-only, and we are not adopting puppies.”

**Author's Note:**

> Mrs. Enjolras has a strict policy against weighing in on debates between her son and anyone (but especially her son and Grantaire/her son and her husband).
> 
> Brainchild [here](https://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com/post/178773658078/everyone-thinks-that-enjolras-hates-halloween)!
> 
> The autumnal equinox this year was actually September 23rd, but my brilliant beta-reader reminded me that Jehan probably attended a proper official wiccan event and is belatedly celebrating with eir friends.
> 
> If you like this, think I should write more substanceless fluff, or think I should give up putting effort into any substanceless endeavor in the future _(too late),_ please comment below OR reach out to me at [my tumblr](shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!


End file.
